Aubrey Lynch
Chapter 1: Reign of Glass
The sky is the most beautiful just before the sun comes up. Or maybe I just think so because that’s the only time I look out the window. The moon hangs low, and most of the stars are gone. A line of amber orange lines the horizon as the sun begins its climb. I stalk down the stairs, feet quiet against the wood, and tiptoe towards the fridge. I shuffle the drawstring bag in my hands and drop an orange in, then some turkey in a big plastic bag from last night’s dinner and a few sandwich rolls from the counter. With that, I creep towards the door. It’s easy, knowing where all the creaky floorboards are, but the path isn’t straight.
The sky is still just beginning to lighten, the orange reminding me of the old color of my bedroom. My mom always loved orange. All the same, I wander out into the woodlands stretching out behind my house. My stomach twists, eager for some food, but I don’t stop. Not yet. If my father sees me, he’ll be disappointed. So, I keep going, until I’m sure no one will see me. I take out the rolls and pull the turkey from the plastic bag. I line the rolls with it until they’re thick and won’t close before I start to eat.
The morning air is cold and feels a bit wet. But I don’t shiver. It’s a comfort to have the morning air wash over me, washing away all the fear my father will yell at me over something that was bought for my enjoyment. Most recently, a box of cookies and cream chocolate bars. Not sure he’s noticed that one yet, hidden under my bed.
“You don’t need it,” he’d say. Because that’s what he always says, as if it’s not my money now and still his and Mom’s. The last time he yelled, I got a belt buckle to my left hand over a video game on my phone. It’s scarring over nicely, but I’d rather not have another tally on my skin over something my dad thought wasn’t worth purchasing. Before I know it, the turkey sandwiches are gone, and I’m headed home. I have laundry to do.
The walk is peaceful, and the birds are just starting to sing. Many of them have come back from their migrations, but some still have miles to cover. The blackbirds especially catch my attention with their chirping, and I take out what’s left of the rolls. I break apart the two thumb-sized pieces and throw them to the birds. They fly down, hopping along, then they begin to peck at them.
“They’ll peck your eyes out if you let them,” my mother once said when she saw me feed one. I think they know better. I like to think they know that I bring them food. Besides, birds are supposed to be smart.
All the same, despite the detour and the dread pooling in my stomach, I reach the front door to my house. Something shatters inside. I wince, and back away.
“You— You son of a bitch!” my mom screeches. I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out and—” my father’s words end in a yelp as something more solid hits the wall. It doesn’t shatter, but I glance at the front windows to see the curtains pulled closed. I walk along the side of the house until I reach the window to the laundry room, right next to the stairs. I push the window up— it’s never locked, and it’s good to know that even now it isn’t locked— and I sling my bag through the opening and drop it. The only thing that makes a sound when it hits the ground is the pocketknife I keep in there.
I pause as the yelling continues, and grab the edge of the windowsill, and pull myself through. I don’t bother creeping towards the stairs, simply moving as fast as possible to my room. I stuff as much as possible into the green backpack next to the bed— a change of clothes, a small camping stove I hide under my bed, a box of Velveeta mac and cheese, a couple of blankets… With some hesitance, I throw three cookies and cream chocolate bars in and briefly mourn because I know they’re going to snap to fit as soon as I zipper the bag. But they’ll still taste as good when I eat them. All the same, I dump half-drank water bottles into a large jug of water clipped to my backpack and clip the small pot and trust the spork I have is stowed away with the pocketknife. So, with that, I zip the bag and walk downstairs. I hear my spare pocketknife, a tiny little opinel with a spruce wood handle and folding blade, must be rustling in the pencil compartment at the rope of my backpack with my spork.
I hope no one hears it too. The silence is chilling. Once I saw in a video online that this is what forgiveness sounds like: “screaming, and then silence.” And if that’s the case, forgiveness is one of the most chilling things in the entire world. I’d rather be yelled at and know where I stand rather than be yelled at and confused because whoever was yelling suddenly stopped yelling.
In the other room, I hear sobbing. It’s clearly my mother, and my heart twists, but I go back to the laundry room and climb through the open window before shutting it. She was sweeping something, I can only hope it’s not Jessy’s our old dog’s, ashes. But it probably is. There are very few breakable things in the house. The blue forget-me-nots my mother planted under the old apple tree in our backyard are wilting.
I move forwards and walk the trails. The forest winds, taking me to naturally beautiful places, and it seems the paths never lead to the same place. I’ve been to a flowery meadow, covered in thriving blue forget-me-nots, and a set of three small waterfalls in the creek running within the forest. When I was little, I thought no one built here because there were monsters. Because when you think about it, monsters, like fairies and dragons and unicorns, are in forests. That’s what all the fairytales say. Then I thought no one built here because it was too beautiful. Then I learned that it’s actually because a small, fragile species of fish lives in the creek’s bends, even though it’s rife with bettas and goldfish that were released into the wild. Special fish or not, monsters or not, I roam often.
Eventually I find what looks like a cave, just as the sun is going down. Wooden logs line the entrance, and it strikes me that I’ve never seen a mine. Floorboards with wobbly edges line the ground, fitting together as well as they can with the obvious discolored knots jutting out from their sides. An apple tree grows right beside the entrance, its buds in full view as the branches jut into the sky.
Footsteps thud against the floorboards and I tense up. In front of me stands a man, with bark-like skin with fine fur sparsely covering it. His gray beard is speckled with green moss, and his dark green hair is streaked with gray. Shaggy moss grows on his arms, alongside some sort of woody looking vine, and he has a thin black tail tufted with moldy fur. The oyster mushroom on his neck makes it seem like a tree trunk rather than a body part. His green eyes glow slightly in the shadows. He smiles.
“Oh, well I wasn’t expecting a visitor today,” he says.
“I didn’t mean to show up here— I think I’ll just go.” I say.
He shakes his head, gesturing to my backpack. “You’re clearly looking for a place to stay. You’re welcome here,” he says.
“Haven’t you ever heard of stranger danger?”
“You’re a child. I feel kind of obligated to help you,” he says.
“That’s just because you’re ancient,” I say.
He pauses, then bobs his head from side to side.
“You’re still a child to me.”
“That still doesn’t mean you have to help me. Or that I’ll need your help,” I say.
A white deer stumbles into the edge of the clearing, watching us curiously. The old man lowers his head slightly.
“I want to. And I know it’s going to rain tonight, so you’re safer with me than you would be out in the middle of the storm. I have a feeling it’ll be a thunderstorm.”
I look up. Sure enough, dark heavy clouds are rolling in. Lightning flashes along the edges of a cloud, blotting out the stars, and I turn to the old man. I don’t want to stay with him, but I also don’t want to be out in a thunderstorm with nothing but a couple of blankets to keep me warm.
I could go home. I could, I could, I could, but I won’t. I don’t want to see my dad yet or watch mom frown and bow her head because she knows exactly why I disappeared. I don’t want to know what happened to Jessy’s ashes.
“Alright. I’ll stay with you. But what’s your name?” I ask.
He smiles and holds out a hand. Briefly, I think he wants to shake my hand, but as I reach for it, he just gestures into the mine. Thunder finally crackles.
“I’m Leshy,” he says.
“I’m Jonah. Nice to meet you? I guess?”
Leshy smiles and turns to wander inside. I follow behind him. He gives a rusty chuckle.
“Oh, I’m more than happy to meet you too! It’s been forever since I’ve had company.”
I walk into the mine, and coal veins line the dirt walls, flanked by wooden supports and wood planks that have been pressed into the wall. Some broken pieces of coal line the ground, but Leshy only leads me deeper and deeper into the mine. He twists to turn into a large clearing, where the roof has clearly caved in. Wildflowers and pine trees grow here, seemingly carefully planted around the edge of a somewhat circular pit filled with water. Moss coats much of the walls, and mushrooms grow on logs and on tree trunks. I especially take notice of the oyster mushrooms, which all look similar to the one on Leshy’s neck.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask.
Leshy shrugs.
“It’s remained the same for all this time. Besides, I’ve reinforced the walls and lined the edges with pine wood. It should be relatively safe, if safe is the word you’re looking for,”
I slowly take a breath, then let it out. I’m not in danger. I’m not in danger, and I have to believe I’m not, because I know staying here is my best shot at making it through the storm. Leshy gestures to a dug-out room in the wall, a cozy little round room with some deer skins on the floor. Leshy sits on one, then pulls the other up and around his shoulders like a blanket. I stand across from him, lay down one of my old quilts, then sit on it and take out the newer, greener plaid one and wrap myself in it. Something flashes through Leshy’s face, but I don’t quite catch what it is. I think it’s something reminiscent of forget-me-nots and ashes.
One drop of water hits a leaf, followed by dozens of siblings, then hundreds, then thousands. They pound the leaves and sink into the soil, making a symphony of the long-understood harmony between plant and the water cycle. The symphony is fast-paced, the result of the rain coming down in sheets. But, seeing as though I’m out of the rain, that doesn’t really matter. Leshy laughs.
“It’s a good storm! I really needed this.” He says, rubbing his hands gently over moss-covered, furry knees.
“Yeah. I guess it’s good I decided not to be stubborn just this once,” I say.
He nods. “Quite the accomplishment. All of humanity is stubborn; it’s not just you.”
“Thank you?” I say.
He waves a hand. “Eh. I meant it.”
There’s silence for a moment as lightning streaks across the sky, whiting out the world. As if waiting for the sky to chime in, Leshy stays quiet. Then thunder finally crashes with a crack, the kind you might hear if someone hit a baseball with a baseball bat. I remember watching Grandpa put on baseball every Saturday— especially old games he’d seen for the past thirty years or more. He was a quiet, mousy man who preferred guns and hunting over much else. It’s hard to believe he could’ve produced a man as controlling and destructive as my father.
“I might as well tell a story, don’t you think?”
I shrug. “We have all the time in the world,” I say.
“Then can I tell you a story?” Leshy asks.
“Sure. Shoo,” I say.
“A long time ago now, there was a village near here. The people that lived there were called the Glassmakers,” Leshy says.
“You do know there is a town about twenty miles from here, right? Lasgs Cove? And they do make glass?”
“I know, I know. But there was no such order back then. It was… ah… a different world, I think,” he says.
“You’re just telling me you’re old,” I say.
He makes an offended noise. “I’m wise. And you know I’m not human.”
“You act like you are.”
“Have you considered that I used to be?”
I pause. “Were you?”
“Yes. And some things are hard to let go.”
“Then what happened to you?”
He shrugs. “Well, it was a long time ago.”
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“It was a long time ago,” he says again.
The rain patters outside, and thunder crackles softly as lightning flashes.
“The Glassmakers were famous for their glass tea pots. But it was their executioner who caught my attention. He looked a lot like me, but… our skill sets differed. His name was Oak, and he was a warrior in every sense of the word,” he says.
“And you aren’t a warrior?” I ask.
“Never have been, Jonah. But Oak was even though it was clear to me he was meant for a different life.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“There was just something about him. He planted wildflowers alongside crops, and he even tried to raise fallen baby birds on his own.”
Lightning flashes, and a moment later, thunder crashes with a loud roar.
“It’s really chaotic out there,” I say. Leshy shifts his shoulders back briefly, as if attempting to move some stiffness out of them, before relaxing. “We called people like Oak mycan. But he wasn’t the only one, and people saw fit to kill them because they posed a threat to humans. The Carver Group was one such roaming band aiming to kill mycan. They thought God had died, and that’s why there were mycan.”
“Seems a bit self-centered to take on ‘God’s job’ like that,” I say.
Leshy nods. “Volker Carver was the son of Wynne Carver, the leader of the Carver Group. He heard of Oak, and he hid in the trees with his ax and waited for him for hours near the river. Then, of course, Oak came. He dropped down trying to get a clean hit to Oak’s head, but Oak dodged and caught Volker by surprise and pinned him against a tree. He let him off with a warning, something like “try that again and I won’t hesitate to turn your ax on you,” and let him go. Volker had never been spared by a mycan,” Leshy says.
“That seems a bit dumb of Oak to let go of the man who just tried to kill him,” I say.
“It was risky, yes, but it won over Volker’s curiosity. They spoke. Volker watched how Oak lived and asked him questions. He’d always seen mycan become beloved partners, and some had even borne human children. But he’d never stopped to see one truly live. He only killed them,” Leshy says. The rain lessens for a moment, then picks up again. Leshy holds the deer skin tighter around his shoulders, and I shift further into my quilt. Leshy waits for a moment, then continues.
“Volker learned from Oak how to work glass, and eventually it was common for Oak to sit and have dinner with him. The first time they ate together, they split a deep red apple directly from the village orchard. They ate in relative silence, tense and waiting for the other to attack. But they never did. They began to walk and talk about the way their lives used to be before then. And then they began to joke, and they grew closer and closer,” Leshy says.
“So, Volker learned compassion?” I ask.
“He learned to value Oak as a person. And then he realized he could no longer kill him. His father, Wynne, had been speaking with the village to try to work out a way to get rid of Oak. Volker finally spoke against him. He brought up point after point, encounter after encounter, that proved to him Oak was more human than anyone believed. He always came back to the apple, and the moment he was watching Oak cut it when he could’ve easily sunk that same knife into Volker’s flesh and ripped him from life itself,” Leshy says.
“Wynne didn’t believe him and launched an attack. In the end, it was Wynne against Oak. And just when Wynne thought he had a chance to kill Oak, Volker stepped between them. He begged his father not to kill this mycan in particular, to leave him be, and said he wished to stay with him until the end of his days or as long as Oak would have him— whichever came first. And Wynne was appalled. Oak himself looked past Volker with a shocked look on his face, then it faded into anger and Wynne moved forward to attack again. But Volker had had enough and struck his father with his ax. His father screamed, furious and pained, and went to attack Volker with a lame arm,” Leshy says.
I blink with a yawn, and Leshy suppresses a yawn, laying down on his deer skin as I move to curl up into a more comfortable position on my quilt. I sigh as the rain continues, and though I can’t see the open clearing of the mine, I can imagine the plants’ leaves bending under the force of the rain and the trees soaking it up for themselves.
“Volker took the challenge and struck Wynne down. He struck blow after blow to his head and chest, taking advantage of Wynne’s lame arm to find that opening. He cried, and screamed, furious as he struck his dying father over and over again before he dropped to his knees as his father collapsed and died. The other Carver Group members stood around the corpse. They bowed and left one by one. They left the village, and Volker stayed. Oak pulled him to his feet and took him home,” Leshy says.
“Did they stay together?” I ask.
“What?”
“Did they stay together?” I ask.
Leshy blinks, then nods. “Yes. They stayed together long after the Carver Group left. They lived together, and I guess in your terms they were practically married.” Leshy says.
“They were in love?”
Leshy shrugs. “I never asked or pried. We never really talked all that much. They were happy together; that was all I needed to know. And the Glassmakers thrived with both of them.” Leshy says.
“Why tell this story, then?” I ask.
Leshy props his head up on his hand. “I thought it’d be a good story,” he says.
“Or do you just secretly like love stories?” I ask.
“You’re being unfair, trying to analyze me off of the first story I tell.”
“Am I?”
“Are all human children like you?”
“Again, not a child,” I say.
“You’re a child to me,” Leshy insists.
“Fine, but only because you’re ancient,” I say, then yawn.
“You’re tired.”
“So what? I can stay up,” I say.
“Just rest your head and close your eyes. You’ll sleep well.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” I say.
“Just humor me a few minutes,” Leshy says.
I nod, then lay my head down on my backpack and close my eyes. The last thing I remember is Leshy’s voice, asking, “What am I going to do with you?”
Chapter 2: Duck Hunt
When I wake, it’s to my stomach clenching with hunger. The little room smells of morning dew and old rain, and Leshy is already up and moving. He’s got a wooden bowl full of berries. Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, and a few crab apple slices. He glances at me once as I sit up, then turns to me and hands me the bowl. I grab it carefully and examine the berries. There’s only a few— not enough for a meal.
“Not hungry?” Leshy asks. My green eyes meet his.
“No, I’m hungry. I’m just not sure… fruit is the best idea. I don’t usually eat fruit,” I say.
“Oh. Oh.” Leshy says, looking down at the bowl. I shrug.
“It’s alright. I brought food,” I say, moving my backpack from behind me to my lap.
Leshy shuffles closer, looming over the bag. For a moment his shadow looks like my father’s, and I shiver as I sit out the box of Velveeta mac and cheese and a cookies and cream chocolate bar. After a moment, I take a second chocolate bar.
Leshy’s brows furrow. “Why does it look like that? Why isn’t it in a glass jar?”
“Capitalism,” I say.
“I could get you a fish just fine and you’d be better off,” Leshy says.
“It’d probably be a goldfish. I don’t want to eat something that used to be a pet.”
“It’s just a fish, like any other,” Leshy says.
“It used to be a pet. I don’t eat pets,” I say.
“It’d still be better than whatever is in those awful colorful packages,” Leshy says.
“Please just let me make my mac and cheese,” I say. Leshy sighs, shaking his head and throwing up a hand.
“Fine. But if it’s awful, it’s awful,” he says.
“I could share with you. I have a whole box,” I say, shaking the box.
Leshy curls his lip slightly, and it takes me a moment to register his apparent disgust.
“What did mac and cheese ever do to you?” I ask. Leshy turns his head away.
“Fine. I’ll have some of your mac and cheese if it means that much to you,” he says.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m sure. And I know you need to boil water to cook pasta— we can eat in the Hole,” Leshy says.
“The Hole?” I ask.
“The clearing, where the ceiling’s caved in.”
I nod and stand, picking up my backpack. “Is there a dry spot?” I ask.
“Well, sure,” Leshy says, shuffling towards, then past me to exit the room. We walk out into a dry portion, where there’s a wooden overhang with beams keeping it up. Sticks and split wood line the little wooden shelves embedded into the dirt walls, each with a network of supporting planks and pieces to keep the dirt from collapsing. Blackbirds sing, pecking at the ground.
“I’ll start the fire,” Leshy says, taking a few pieces of split wood, some twigs, and some dry moss and grass kept in a smaller hole in the wall next to the wood. He digs a pit with his bare hands, then puts the wood in place around the tinder.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a lighter,” I say.
“No lighter,” Leshy says, before closing his eyes and muttering something. Smoke rises from the tinder, and soon Leshy is blowing on the fire to encourage it to grow. And grow it does.
I catch sight of a piece of metal hanging on one of the wooden beams. It’s clearly been worked with artful dents and an orange outline of an eye. The pupil is the sun, orange and stylized.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You don’t need to worry about it.”
I shrug and put some water from my jug into my pot and let it begin to boil over the fire. Leshy watches carefully, moving his hand towards the handle to gently take it away from me.
“I can hold it so your arms don’t tire,” he says.
“It’s not efficient to hold the pot, and you’re older than me. I can handle it,” I say.
“Nonsense,” Leshy says.
“You look like a crusty seventy-year-old man. I’m not a crusty seventy-year-old man— I’m eighteen. Which means I’m perfectly capable of holding the pot on my own, Leshy,” I say.
“I am not seventy—”
“Oh, I know you’re at least seventy,” I say.
“I’m not—”
“So you’re eighty then? You look good for eighty,” I say.
“No—”
“Wow, ninety? I didn’t realize you were that old. You’re looking good for ninety,” I say.
“I can’t stop you, can I?” Leshy asks, withdrawing his hands from where they hover near the pot’s handle.
“Just let me hold the pot,” I say.
“Was that really the whole point of shaming me for my age?” Leshy asks.
“Come on, it was funny,” I say.
“Well you don’t seem amused, Jonah,” He says.
I shrug, pouring the mac and cheese into the boiling water. “I get that a lot,” I say.
“You’re smiling, at least,” Leshy grumbles.
“You offered to help me. You’re stuck with me now,” I say.
Leshy relaxes. “Yes, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t going to leave a child out in the rain,” he says.
“Bold words for someone who’s only known me a day, old man.”
“You’re going to make it your mission to make me regret this, aren’t you?”
I pour out the boiling water into the grass, so there’s only a little bit left. Leshy furrows his brows, his lips tightening into a frown.
“I’m going to make it my life’s mission, in fact. And there’s nothing you can do about it,” I say.
“Jonah?” Leshy says.
I place the pot on the ground, away from the boiling water as it seeps into the soil and grab the silver packet of cheese.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You said you were making mac and cheese. Where’s the cheese?” he asks.
“Right here,” I say, showing off the silver packet before I take my pocketknife from my backpack and shove it through the space between my fingers, cutting a slice through the packet. I squeeze the cheese into the noodle shells, and Leshy recoils as I take my spork and mix the cheese into the pasta, creating a sticky, gooey sound.
“That’s not cheese. That’s paste,” Leshy says.
“Well, it’s edible, and it’s not the worst.”
“Paste isn’t acceptable for anyone to eat, let alone a child. You need better to grow.”
“I’m done growing. I’m legally an adult,” I say, glancing at Leshy. His tail twitches where he sits, gaze fixed on the mac and cheese.
“You’re not eating that. What do you want? I can find something a bit more reasonable than noodles with cheese flavored paste,” he says.
“I want my mac and cheese,” I say.
“Nonsense. Do you eat nuts? Herbs? There’s a number of animals to choose from as well,” he says. I go to take a bite of my mac and cheese, but Leshy takes the bowl and stands.
I shrink back, and he blinks before stepping back himself, his shoulders sagging as his tail waves back and forth.
“I’ve had mac and cheese a million times before. It’s perfectly fine, Leshy,” I say.
“Then you can have something different,” he says. He seems serious about this, and while I’m sure he’s right that the ultra-processed cheese probably isn’t good for me, I’m not sure I want to wait.
“You can have a deer, a duck, a robin, a squirrel… with some wild onions, or mustard if you want mustard,” he says.
“I guess a duck is kind of normal for a person to eat. I think a duck is fine,” I say.
“Do you want anything with it? Wild onions or garlic?”
“Both? If that’s not a problem?”
“It’s really not a problem. There’s a lot of onions and garlic here to go around,” he says, gesturing to the leafy undergrowth and foliage of the Hole. Sure enough, I can pick out the thick green blades denoting patches of wild onions. I ate quite a few of them when I was younger because I could. I never said I was a smart kid— they could’ve been poisonous, and I wouldn’t have known until it was too late.
Leshy puts the bowl down and I stand, only taking a step forward to rest my spork in the mac and cheese.
“Getting a duck should be no problem either,” Leshy says.
“Can I go with you? I don’t know what I’d do just sitting here for who knows how long,” I say.
“You can,” Leshy says, turning and leading me through the mine. His footsteps sound heavy, echoing against earthen walls and rough wood. “I knew a duck hunter once. His name was Richard.” There’s a tone to his voice that I’ve never quite heard before in anyone. Maybe it’s grief. I haven’t heard much grief. Is this what forget-me-nots would sound like if they could talk? Or is it how ashes sound when scattering against a cold wood floor?
“He was talented at hunting. He had rooms of animals he’d pinned to the walls— all taxidermy, of course. He thought it was art. It wasn’t. It was a waste. Those animals’ lives amounted to nothing more than being a wall fixture. He didn’t use their eyes, their bones, their flesh, their organs. He used only the skin and feathers, and he took and never gave. He never planted a single tree or rescued a single caterpillar from being squished on the path behind his house,” Leshy says. We come to the entrance of the mine, and it smells like wet dirt and fresh leaves. The leaf litter on the ground seems to have a watery sheen left from the rain and dew.
“You sound like you expected him to be better,” I say.
“I did. He looked at the woods with amazement. His free time was spent out in the woods, sometimes with a gun, sometimes without, but he always came back. He told me so many stories of his time in the woods with his mother, and with his father when he took up hunting at only eight years old. Richard’s whole identity was wrapped up in what he thought it meant to be in the woods,” Leshy says.
“And you thought he’d change because he loved the woods?”
“Yes, and because he promised me he’d try. So many people were dying trying to get into the woods, and I’d granted him my protection because his love of the forest matched my own,” he says.
“That was the Signa Company murders, right?” I ask. Fourteen people in total had died over six months, causing the Signa Company to abandon their operations in the forest despite their permit. That was the most recent spate of mass murder in the area, and they all had silver birch branches shoved through their hearts. People go missing sometimes, with very few high-profile cases.
“Maybe. I don’t know. A lot of people have lived and died here,” Leshy says.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I ask. Leshy shakes his head as we continue down a barely-there trail. Dread pools in my stomach. Even if he did do it, why would he ever admit it to me? It was dumb to ask—
“I don’t like to hurt people. But it is true I’ll mess with machinery if it gets people who shouldn’t be here to go away,” Leshy says.
“So you cut the brakes?” I ask.
“I guess that’s what they were called. I hardly remember now. No human has been here in a long time,” he says.
Well, that’s not as bad as murder.
“Anyway, Richard. He loved the forest, but he never stopped to consider his actions. So many animals met their end at the barrel of his gun. But I saw he loved the forest, and I gave him my blessing. On the condition he changed and used all of the animals he killed rather than just turning them into props for his house,” Leshy says.
“And he didn’t?” I ask.
“He didn’t. I tried so hard to get him to see he was disrespecting the animals he killed. I spoke to him, ate with him, and walked with him. He once killed a mother duck, leaving me to look after her ducklings. She, of course, ended up on his wall. That was when he lost my favor. But ultimately, he left one day, and he was never able to come back. The forest wouldn’t let him back, always looping back around to where he entered after a few minutes of him trying to trek through the thorn bushes and undergrowth,” Leshy says.
We come to a pond, brimming with life. Stick bugs hang from sticks, frogs leap around the water’s edge, and ducks swim in the pond at a leisurely pace. In the water, tadpoles and minnows swim near the dappled patches of light, their gray bodies so transparent in the sunlight. Near the creek, where it meets the pond, a goldfish rests, watching a red betta with elegant, flowing fins swim confidently into the pond. A blackbird watches from the branches across the creek. It has a scar over its chest, making the feathers noticeably thin and messy.
“Richard meant a lot to you, didn’t he?” I ask as Leshy wades into the pond, heading towards a duck. She doesn’t notice, swimming right up to him.
“Well, we were close,” Leshy says.
“Did you love him?” I ask.
“Jonah, I don’t think that matters,” Leshy says, voice soft like the fuzz of a dandelion in spring.
“Did you love him?” I ask.
Leshy takes the duck in his hands. “Jonah,” he says, voice sharper.
“I’m curious. I have so many questions—”
“Jonah.” Leshy says, voice as firm as stone. My words die before I can form them. He looks down at the duck in his hands as she looks around. My stomach twists. I wanted to eat a duck.
“Maybe I could eat something else?” I ask.
“Nonsense. She’s old— she’s lived a long life. And that leg of hers is weak. A predator will get her if we don’t. Her life won’t be wasted if she feeds you and keeps you alive. She’ll be part of you,” Leshy says.
Downstream, another female duck paddles along. Does she know what’s going on? There’s a crunch, and I flinch.
“The deed is done,” Leshy says, holding the duck as it twitches in his hand. He runs a hand over her side.
“I won’t eat her organs, though,” I say.
Leshy shrugs. “Then you can feed them to the fish, or I can. Her life isn’t going to go to waste. She’ll live on in us,” Leshy says.
Neither of us say a word as he wades back out of the pond, holding the dead duck. Neither of us says a word as he plucks it, guts it, and begins to make a fire. He wanders, finding some wild onions and garlic. He tears them apart with his hands, putting them under the duck’s skin.
“Are you sure it’s worth it?” I ask.
Leshy looks at me from where he turns the duck over a fire. His face is as set as hardened clay, like if he dropped something he would shatter.
“It’s the way the forest works. Her life will sustain you. It’s not cruel, or unusual. But so few humans ever question it— I’m glad you are,” Leshy says.
“She had a story, didn’t she?” I ask.
“Even the smallest pebble has a story, Jonah. It’s not a privilege only afforded to the living. The world is made of billions of stories— you just don’t know them yet,” he says.
When he hands the duck to me, skin burnt due to being cooked so fast, I sink my teeth into it. Leshy throws the organs into the pond. I can only imagine the fish eating them as I continue to eat the duck. It’s greasy and fatty on my tongue. Pleasant, and bird-like, but not too overwhelming.
It’s impossible to tell that her tawny feathers kept her warm in the water, or that she probably raised dozens of ducklings. She probably had a mate, once, and probably lost a few ducklings and brothers and sisters along the way. Did her children find mates of their own? Did they ever visit?
Do they remember her?
A patch of forget-me-nots are in bloom under an oak tree.
Aubrey Lynch ‘23 is from Levittown, Pennsylvania. She is an Environmental Conservation and Writing double major.